


Easy

by tacroy



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 03:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacroy/pseuds/tacroy
Summary: “Careful there, Captain,” Roy says. He reaches out and pushes Maes’s glasses up. It’s so natural for him to leave his hand there for a moment, then move it down so that his thumb rests, easy, on Maes’s bottom lip.





	Easy

**Author's Note:**

> i'm in the mildly distressing habit of writing 3k words at 4 am, leaving it sitting for two years, and then posting it basically unedited after my morning adderall kicks in. don't be like me, kids. go through your drafts more than once every eighteen months, and also, sleep more.

It’s easy. It’s easy to drink.

It’s easy to say other things. Easy to wind around the truth like avoiding a pothole on a bicycle. Easy to laugh about  _ home _ , about  _ normalcy _ , as if  _ this _ isn’t normal now, this fire and blood. 

Easy to help Maes back to his tent. They should be quartered, they agree, laughing too loud; a nearby sentry shushes them in the way a private must speak sternly to COs: teasing and afraid.

“As you were,” Roy says, projecting his voice in that way he knows he has, using the commanding depth of it to fill a space. The sentry tilts his head a little in acknowledgement—fear? Disapproval? —and they walk on, whispering now.

Maes takes a full minute to undo the ties on his tent while Roy laughs at him. Maes is hamming it up.  _ Is it  _ this _ tie? Oh gosh, nope, it’s  _ that _ tie. Oh shit, I dropped that one. Can’t get this one undone. Goodness, this is hard. Will you help me, sir?  _ He bats his eyelashes at Roy. And Roy is still laughing when he comes over and puts his hands on Maes’s and moves them away from the ties.  _ Allow me, Captain. You can’t be trusted with this much whiskey in you. _

There is something in the way Maes’s hands flex under Roy’s. 

Something easy.

Roy gets the flap open and Maes bends briefly to go in, then turns around to look at Roy, still in a half-crouch. Roy has to tilt his head so that they can see each other. Maes laughs again. “Goodnight, Lieutenant Colonel.” He salutes at the same angle, his glasses almost falling off his nose. 

“Careful there, Captain,” Roy says. He reaches out and pushes Maes’s glasses up. It’s so natural for him to leave his hand there for a moment, then move it down so that his thumb rests, easy, on Maes’s bottom lip.

Desert winds gust between the tents like ropes. The stars are out; the sky is clear. And even the sands cannot drink it all up: there is always the smell of drying blood.

Roy moves forward like a wall of rock pushed ahead by an alchemical circle. Maes steps back, stumbling over his bedroll, and Roy shoves him down into it. The flap, which fastens on the outside, falls back into place, and there is simple, easy darkness around them as Roy fastens his mouth on Maes’s neck.

Maes whines as he spreads his legs for Roy to settle a leg between them. Roy tangles his hand in Maes’s short hair, kissing and biting at Maes’s collarbone while Maes ruts, involuntary, against the knee between his legs. “Fuck,” Maes breathes, “Roy.  _ Roy _ .” 

Roy pins one of Maes’s hands above his head and runs his other hand down Maes’s side, to his hip, to his thigh, and toys with the fabric while he watches Maes’s face. Maes has closed his eyes so tight that his laugh lines are frowning. It is a small wonder to see  _ this _ laid out before him. His subconscious mind knows that the tent and the darkness are a weak shield to the blood. But shield they still are, especially when his hand drifts up again and finds the sweet thumbprint of Maes’s hip under his thick uniform, and Maes chokes out a gasp.

“Take off your coat,” Roy says heavily, and releases Maes’s wrist.

Maes’s eyes flash open and he scrambles to undo the heavy buttons of his overcoat, panting. Roy is impressed at his own boldness as he undoes his own coat too, staring right into Maes’s face. He is trying to control his breathing. He doesn’t really know why he’s bothering, since Maes is panting like a dog. Fundamentally, he knows that these are their roles: Maes expresses, Roy reserves. And there is so much power in both.

They don’t say anything as they take off their coats.

Roy goes for Maes’s ear when they’re done, biting the lobe and breathing hot right into Maes’s ear. He finds the blade of Maes’s hip again and spends centuries there, circling, pressing as Maes bucks desperately against him. Goosebumps spring up his arms as he feels Maes’s cock shove against his thigh, and he chokes a little against Maes’s neck. “Fuck,” Maes is saying, and “God,” as he flexes his hips. “Please,” he says, “Roy,” as Roy lifts the hem of Maes’s shirt and runs his hand over the firmness of his stomach. The heat is getting to him. To them. He tugs up Maes’s undershirt impatiently and Maes, trembling, works it off as Roy’s hands hinder more than help.

The expanse of Maes’s chest takes years to explore. There is sweat to be licked off slowly. Heartbeats to feel under the palm. Sensitive pectorals to examine with teeth and fingers and even breath, released slowly and deliberately across the path of licked-off sweat so that Maes’s nipples tighten and tighten as the pressures builds and builds. Roy spends an age on the side of Maes’s stomach; an eon dragging his prickly chin down Maes’s breastbone to his belly button, where he dwells for some time in the house of deception as he pretends to dip his mouth lower, then return with a tongue-swipe upwards accompanied by Maes’s angry sighs. 

Eventually and unceremoniously, Roy puts his hand on the crotch of Maes’s pants.  _ Aaa-aahh-hhhhh _ , Maes stutters. Some sort of tide has come in and Roy goes for the buttons like he went for Maes’s throat. Roy can feel his own cock aching as he slips the first button through its loop.

“W-wait,” Maes says, and puts his hand over Roy’s.

Roy looks up at him. 

Maes stares, eyes glassy behind his lenses, pupils blown. Roy realizes how he must look. He’s practically drooling. His mouth is open a little, his tongue pressed so hard against his bottom teeth that it overflows like fire on a dry tree. 

“Go—go there,” Maes whispers, pushing at Roy’s shoulders. Roy sits up, obedient, looking where Maes points, towards a sturdy camp table behind them. Roy stands, a little uncomfortably, and Maes scrambles up too.

“What d’you—” Roy says, but Maes doesn’t let him finish. He takes Roy by the upper arms and manhandles him across the tent until the backs of Roy’s knees bump against the camp table. 

“Sit,” Maes says.

Roy does not sit. He looks at Maes. He tries to look at Maes’s face, but the trails where his mouth walked are gleaming on Maes’s chest.

“Please, sir,” Maes says. He takes off his glasses. “Sit.”

Roy sits.

In a hundredth of a second, he sees what he wants: Maes standing in front of him, close, cock in hand, tracing its heavy head over Roy’s lips. When Maes gets to his knees instead, Roy is transparently surprised. His mouth opens and closes and opens again as Maes shuffles forward and gently spreads Roy’s knees. “Lean back,” Maes says, his thumbs working their way up the inside of Roy’s thighs. “Relax,” he adds with a grin as Roy stiffly acquiesces.

Easily, Maes pops the buttons out of their loops, opening the close until they can see the outline of Roy’s cock in his shorts. Roy distantly considers being ashamed of this, of the precome stain and how he’s chewing on his lip, of the way Maes’s hair is sticking up, of the noises they’re both making. But why bother when he could be focusing on how Maes runs the flat of his hand down the length of Roy’s cock. What else matters when Maes brings out Roy’s cock slowly and deliberately. The shame surges briefly as Roy’s balls tighten in the cool air, but then Maes is opening his mouth, and there’s nothing else but heat.

Maes takes in the head of Roy’s cock easily into his mouth and it is too much and too little, too heavy and too light. Leaning back like Roy is it’s easy to buck forward, adding half an inch to what’s already in Maes’s mouth. Maes steadies him, one hand on Roy’s hip, calming, and then Maes’s other hand contradicts the first directly by wrapping around the base of Roy’s dick. Roy swears and contracts as Maes moves his head in one direction and his hand in another. Roy can feel the laugh in Maes’s cheeks and it would piss him off if he weren’t so gone.

There’s always been this clarity in oral once the heat dissipates: Roy finds himself thinking of other things while being serviced like this. Of duty and plans and dust, sometimes, or the book he’s reading, or the scent of the woman he’s fucking. Time begins to slow like ice melting hesitantly in the early spring. It’s not distraction, but long, careful focus that draws careful sketches of images only previously dreamed in passing. He’d watch the bright shoulder of the woman with close detachment. He’d believe himself above this, fundamentally. 

He’d be wrong.

Maes is, essentially, no different; his shoulders are as bright and his scent is as sweet. But now Roy sees what an idiot he was before—to believe this was nothing, to think he could drift down a stream while others built the bridge. God, the man had his mouth around Roy’s cock. There wasn’t anything noble or removed about it and there never had been. 

Roy lets himself live this as he never has before. He unclenches his teeth and unlocks his throat. He doesn’t keep track. He throws his consciousness out of his mind and down his spine until it settles in the base of him and catches flame and _ that _ , at least, he knows.

Maes is gagging, now. The way his face changes as he moves up and down Roy’s cock is so obscene. His lips stretch and his cheeks hollow and grow, and a line of drool drips steadily from the corner of his mouth. Maes’s throat contracts around the head of his cock and Roy cries out. The rhythm and heat are so much and so encompassing that Roy doesn’t realize he has one hand fisted hard in Maes’s hair until his other arm, buttressing him, trembles and drops him an inch backwards. Maes comes off Roy’s cock slowly.

“Fuck me,” Maes croaks. Roy has to clear a haze to really see him. Maes licks his lips and wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his hand. “Roy, please, you have to fuck me, I need you, I need—”

Roy pushes Maes backwards, just like before, elementally firm. He shucks off his pants and shorts standing over Maes while Maes struggles out of the rest of his clothes, wriggling on his back. Roy falls upon him like a predator. He takes his kill by the throat and fumbles their cocks together. They move like this within Roy’s hand, lubricated by Maes’s spit. Roy looks down at their join, briefly amazed by how different Maes’s cock is—not in any sort of obvious, describable way, but in that it is there against Roy’s, and distinct.

Maes roots around with one hand in a kit near their heads and produces a vial of the sort of oil most men far away from home require. He unstoppers it and Roy releases their cocks to cup his hand under the vial. The oil is slick and the feel of it alone makes Roy’s chest heave. Maes bites his lip as he stoppers and puts away the vial. He closes his eyes and clutches Roy’s hips when Roy runs his fore- and middle fingers down the underside of Maes’s cock, around his balls, across his perineum, to finish at his entrance. 

“Have you d-done this before?” The stutter comes when Maes’s entrance flexes at the tip of Roy’s forefinger. He uses his other fingers to spread the oil up and down Maes’s ass while that forefinger explores down.

“Not with—another person,” Maes pants. He’s got one hand fisted in his own hair, chest heaving, and the other clawed into Roy’s side. His neck is taut like tack on a horse.

“Oh,” Roy breathes. “Oh, Maes.”

Maes opens his eyes and looks at Roy and  _ grins _ again, like he’s the one in control. “I fuck myself all the time,” Maes says, and bites his lip at Roy’s expression. “I open myself up like you’re d-doing. I sit on my hand and stroke myself and—”

“ _ Fuck _ , Maes—”

“—I think about someone bottoming out in me, feeling their cock my throat—” He laughs unsteadily. “—it doesn’t have to be a cock,  _ ah _ , I’d want a woman to take me like this, use her fingers or something—”

“God—”

“—fuck me with her fingers while I’m on my knees— _ ah— _ ”

It’s not easy to restrain himself anymore. Rapidly, to hide his trembling, Roy slides his fingers out and angles up Maes’s hips and guides himself in.

Neither of them hold back. Roy bottoms out in seconds, and Maes replaces his words with sharp, overstimulated cries, and then it’s easy to hold each other still while the rest of the world spins away, and press their foreheads together, and arrive in the same place, and stay there as the blood burns away.


End file.
